Rose stood at the bottom of the stairs, listening to the deep murmur of Otto’s voice and the almost inaudible reply of the sick woman. The house would be lonely without Muriel, she realised. Even the maids would miss her, although there were times she knew the old woman irritated them with her fussy English ways and imperious orders.
The new cuttings were planted the day after a heavy rainfall and as the months went by Lady Muriel seemed to rally. Otto declared this would be the harvest that paid off their debts and gave them back their house.
‘We vill celebrate, my Rose,’ he said a month before the harvest was due. ‘I vill buy you diamond ring, pearls, anything you vish. And for Lady Muriel, I buy new shawl and parasol so she can sit in the sun.’
Rose laughed and returned his hug. ‘Just bring us some new furniture,’ she said with a chuckle. ‘Apart from Muriel’s bed, these old sticks we’re left with are falling apart with mildew and termites.’
It had been a happy evening, with candles on the table, Lady Muriel’s silverware glinting richly against the white cloth and a toast to the future with Coolabah wine. Otto held up his glass, swirled the ruby fire and sipped with enjoyment. ‘Our first real vintage,’ he said proudly. ‘Château Coolabah Rosé, 1841, the year of our marriage. I laid it down after our first harvest together.’
Lady Muriel lifted her glass and took a sip as Otto watched and waited for her reaction.
‘Perfect,’ she said with relish, high spots of colour on her cheeks. The grey silk dress rustled as she struggled to stand. ‘I give this toast to you and Rose. You have made an old woman comfortable, shown me love and understanding, even though I know I am sometimes trying. To you both. Long life and happiness.’
They weren’t to know this would be the last evening they would all spend together. Weren’t to know the terrible price they would have to pay for daring to ignore Wyju’s warning.
*
Michael O’Flynn was working his ticket of leave and had come to Coolabah Crossing almost a year ago. He had served his time in Botany Bay after surviving the hell of a convict ship and although the wooden shack in the middle of nowhere was a far cry from the deprivation of his prison cell, he hated it. Hated the stench of the other eleven men in the shack. Hated being made to wear cast-off clothes and the walk to church every Sunday.
But most of all he hated the heat, the flies, the dust and the never-ending battle to keep the vines alive, for he knew that no matter how hard he worked, none of this could ever be his. His sweat was making the fat German rich – and when his time was up, Michael would be lucky to have a few coppers in his pocket and a piece of scrub land that would break his back and yield nothing for years.
He was restless that night. Now it was late, the lights no longer shining in the windows of the German’s house, and the other men were snoring and snuffling in their sleep. Michael slipped out of bed, lifted the latch and stepped into the moonlight. It was hot, even now, the warm wind sweeping across the land, stirring the strange red earth into spirals that spun across the yard and out on to the terraces.
Michael eyed the cottages the free men had built once their time was served. They, poor fools, had decided to stay and take their chances here. It was easier than going out into the great wide world and fending for themselves. Marriage to local girls had supposedly brought them respectability, but he knew the taint of conviction would always hang over them – would even colour the lives of the many children they had sired.
He looked out across the lines of dark vines and spat into the dust. He needed something to help him sleep, and he knew just where to find it.
With the dexterous stealth of the seasoned thief he’d once been in Dublin, he slipped through the shadows and made his way to the cellars. He knew where the key was hidden. Knew that if Hans the overseer caught him it would mean ten lashes. But the thought of all that drink just lying there waiting for him was too much. He opened the door and slipped inside.
It was cool in the underground cave he and others like him had hacked out of this impossible red earth. As he lit the lantern and held it high, he paused for a moment’s reflection. The stones that lined the cave from floor to ceiling had been carried by wagon from the quarry at Paramatta. Each bore the mark of the tools the poor wretches of quarrymen had wielded as their chains clanked and their guards stood by with whips and guns.
He supposed he should count himself lucky he was out here in the middle of nowhere – but that didn’t diminish his hatred for the people who had sent him here – and for the people who employed him. This was no life. He hadn’t had a woman in years and apart from the odd issue of rum when the German bastard was feeling pleased with himself, hadn’t had a decent drink since old One-eyed Pete had slipped him a fifth of brandy he’d managed to steal from the kitchen.
He lifted the lantern and let the dancing shadows flicker over the racks of bottles that lined the walls. Then he began to fill the deep pockets of his worn coat. It wouldn’t do to take them all from the same place, he decided, choosing one here and one there. The German would certainly notice they were missing then.
Satisfied he’d left no trace of his night’s visit, he locked the door and returned the key to its hiding place. Then he set off into the bush.
It was still dark when he woke. He lay there bleary-eyed, wondering what it was that had snatched him from sleep. Then he smelled something that made him sit up, fear rolling in his gut and sweat breaking out on his palms.
The empty bottles had left a trail as he’d wandered out into the bush, the last of them lying on its side close to his feet. He vaguely remembered having crawled under this bottle brush to get a bit of sleep before he had to return to the hut, but didn’t remember what he’d done with the lantern.
As the smoke drifted skywards, grey against the black of the night, he heard the crackle and spit of burning grass and realised what he’d done. He remembered having stumbled and fallen, dropping the lantern and forgetting about it when he finally got to his feet again and reached for the next bottle. He must have walked on and in his drunkenness not noticed the lamp-oil and the flame spill into the long, silvery grass.
‘To hell with the lot o’ ye,’ he shouted defiantly as he swayed on his feet and watched the smoke gather strength and swirl in the wind. ‘Burn, ye bastards! Burn to hell and damnation!’
*
Rose turned uneasily in her sleep. Her dreams were troubled, and even the warmth and solidity of Otto lying beside her couldn’t banish the fear that threaded through them. She stirred again and opened her eyes.
Otto was flat on his back and snoring, his arms and legs splayed across the bed as usual, leaving her to cling to the edge. Aware of how tired he was, she lay still, staring into the darkness, trying to work out what it was that had woken her. There was certainly a distant noise, but that could hardly have disturbed her sleep, it was too soft, too much like the familiar moan of the wind as it swept down from the hills into the valley.
Horror made her sit up, her eyes staring into the darkness as realisation hit. ‘Otto,’ she screamed, leaping from the bed. ‘Otto, wake up! There’s a fire.’
He was thrust from sleep. In the same moment he threw back the covers and tore out of bed to the window. ‘Oh, mein Gott,’ he moaned.
Rose pushed past him to see for herself. A wall of flame was heading their way, riding on the swirling smoke that seemed to reach the stars. ‘I must get the children,’ she breathed as she snatched up her clothes and tore out of the room.
Otto struggled into his moleskins and charged down the landing, banging on the doors. ‘Fire! Fire! Get out of ze house!’ He tore into Lady Muriel’s room. ‘You must get up. Fire. Help Rose. I go to the vines.’
The old lady struggled to climb out of bed, her nightcap askew, her grey hair trailing over her shoulders. She didn’t have time to reply for Otto was already halfway down the stairs.
Rose snatched the sleepy, frightened children from their beds and tore down the stairs and out of
the house. They were screaming and tearful as she ran with one under each arm towards the wine cellar. It was underground and built of stone – it was the only place she could think of that might not burn.
‘Stay here,’ she ordered as she lit the lamp and snuggled them into the blankets she’d ripped from their beds. ‘I’m going back to get Granny M.’
Two pairs of wide eyes stared back at her in fear and bewilderment. Rose hugged the girls fiercely. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ she whispered. ‘Granny M and I will look after you, but you mustn’t come out of here until I say it’s safe.’
She kissed them both. Their rounded cheeks were damp with tears but they seemed reassured and nodded confidently. Rose looked at her beautiful five-year-old twins, one so dark, the other as auburn as her father. They were precious, more precious than any vine, and although she knew she must, she was loath to leave them.
‘Go and help your husband,’ came a bossy voice from the doorway. ‘I’ll look after the girls.’ Lady Muriel’s face was ghastly by the light of the lantern and her breath ragged, but she still had an air of command about her despite the nightdress and shawl.
Rose kissed her girls again and put her arms around Muriel. ‘Take care of yourself,’ she murmured. ‘Use those buckets of water to douse down the door, but if the fire gets too close, you must take the girls to the river. Sit down in the water and make sure you keep your head wet.’
Muriel gently pushed her away. ‘I know what to do,’ she said firmly. ‘Now go. Otto will be frantic.’
Rose kissed her soft, pale cheek and didn’t allow herself to think how frail she seemed. Turning for one last glimpse of the people she loved, she closed the door and raced to join the stream of men and women who were heading for the terraces.
*
Otto ran to the make-shift stable. The horses were wild-eyed, screaming in fear as they kicked the weathered wooden walls and doors that kept them prisoner. He grabbed the nearest horse and threw himself on its back, then leaned down and opened all the doors so the rest could escape. Like everything else, they would have to take their chances.
He twisted his hands in the mane and kicked the animal into a gallop. The wall of fire was far enough away from the vines for him to try and do something about it. They had plenty of water, and this wasn’t the first time he’d had to fight a fire on Coolabah Crossing. He still had hope.
‘Ve haf to dig a trench,’ he yelled as he joined the line of men who were already beating at the flames on the higher slope. They were armed only with sacking, spades and flat brooms. ‘Follow me.’
He led them back to within several hundred feet of the first line of vines, took a spare spade and began to dig. The smoke was choking, the heat searing even from this distance, and as he worked, sweat stung his eyes. He couldn’t afford to lose another crop, not so soon after the frost – not when everything depended upon it. He began to mutter prayers he’d thought long forgotten, in the hope that if there was a God, he would listen and do something about it.
With his head down and his arms and legs working on automatic, he dug furiously at the earth. The trench would have to be wide and deep enough for the fire not to leap across it. But did they have time?
He glanced up. The wall of smoke and hungry flames were even closer. He dug faster, harder, each spadeful of dirt giving him another inch or two of vicarious security.
‘It ain’t no good,’ yelled Simmons, one of the ticket of leave men. ‘Fire’s catching up and there ain’t enough of us.’
Otto kept on digging. ‘You bloody dig,’ he yelled back. ‘Only way. It’s the only way.’
The heat scorched his face, charred his hair and eyebrows and boiled the sweat. But still he kept digging. He was aware of the other men and women beside him. Aware of the children and old men who were handing buckets of water along the line. Aware he was losing the battle.
‘Get outa there, mate. She’s turning!’ A rough hand yanked him out of the pit he’d dug and dragged him away.
Otto scrambled to his feet, his eyes wild. The smoke boiled around him and he could see the great orange heart of the fire as it descended on his beloved vines. He shrugged the hand from his arm and began to run. ‘Buckets over here,’ he shouted. ‘Wasser on the vines. Soak them!’
He ignored the shouts of warning – was deaf and blind to the others who tried to stop him as he grabbed a bucket and threw the contents on the shrivelling vine. The heat was already doing its work and the once luscious grapes were as wrinkled as raisins.
‘More!’ he shouted. ‘More Wasser.’ Tears of frustration combined with the soot in his eyes and he wandered blindly amongst the dying, burning crop, the empty bucket dangling from his fingers. ‘Please, Gott,’ he moaned. ‘Let it rain.’
The sound of the flames crackling in the vines, the smell of sweet hot grapes bursting and the taste of cinders in his mouth were the last sensations Otto experienced. The wall of flame twisted with the wind and roared over him like a giant wave, engulfing him. Otto sank to his knees. He knew he would never see his beloved Rose again.
*
Rose was with the housemaids on the far eastern corner of the vineyard. Water was plentiful here, from a mountain stream running along the edge of the plantation. They passed the buckets hand to hand as the men beat at the flames with spades and brooms. They didn’t have time to dig a trench, and she had long since lost sight of Otto.
Sweat soaked her, smoke was blinding, getting into her throat and making it raw. She could neither speak nor see in the swirling, roaring inferno, but she already knew this was a battle that couldn’t be won without a miracle.
As she threw yet another bucket of water on the wilting vines, she refused to let herself think of the children and Lady Muriel. The house was still standing, she could see the dark shape of it when the wind blew a gap in the smoke. Therefore the wine cellar would also be out of the line of fire. She had to believe they would be all right. Had to believe Lady Muriel would have the strength to take the children to the river if it got too close.
Rose battled on. The heat crisped her hair and singed her brows, the smoke eddied, the flames spat sparks from tree to tree. She jumped as flames tore up the dry bark of a gum tree and exploded in a shower of sparks as it reached the eucalyptus oil. The tree split in half, tottered and swayed, then with an almost graceful movement began to fall.
‘Look out!’ Rose raced towards the girl who stood transfixed in its path.
The tree crashed to the ground, its tortured branches pinning the terrified maid to the earth. Flames licked at the leaves, tore up the gnarled branches and moved hungrily over the cotton dress and long fair hair. Rose was beaten back by the flames and the heat as the girl’s screams were cut off with chilling suddenness.
She took a step back, covering her face with her hands to shut out the horror.
‘We can’t do nothing, Missus,’ said a field hand’s wife. ‘It’s turning. We gotta get outta here.’
Rose felt the tug on her arm and let herself be pulled away. The world was full of smoke and the orange destruction of the flames. The deep, ominous roar of the great beast rolled ever onwards. Vines were cringing from the heat, yielding to the fire, the sweet smell of the harvest hot in the choking air. She slid down the bank into the river and sank beneath the water that was as warm as if it had come straight from a billy.
The rising sun was masked by the black smoke and day had become as dark as night. The weeping, terrified men and women huddled in the water as the fire inexorably grew closer. Rose pushed her way through them, her heavy trousers and boots making it difficult to walk through the water. She had to find Otto and the children. Had to know they were safe.
*
Muriel knew she was in trouble. The pain in her chest was getting worse and she was finding it hard to breathe. She leaned against the cool wall and fought the rising panic. The children had to be protected. She mustn’t let them know how ill and afraid she was. Her strength was ebbing fast but there were thing
s that needed to be done. Smoke was already filtering under the door.
‘Come along, girls,’ she said in her most bossy manner. ‘Pick up those buckets and keep the door wet.’ She took off her shawl and rolled it into a long sausage, ramming it under the door. It might give them a little more time.
She put her arms around the little girls as they emptied all but one bucket against the door. They were wide-eyed and obviously terrified yet neither of them cried. Neither of them called for their mother – and Muriel felt the pride and love she had for them overcome all her discomfort.
The smoke coiled ghostly fingers around the shawl and through the knotholes in the wood. The pain in her chest was an iron band which ran down her arm and made her bite her lip. Sweat beaded her face and ran down her spine as her heart hammered against her ribs. They couldn’t stay here. The smoke would kill them if the fire didn’t.
Muriel waited for the pain to ease a little, then put her arms around the twins. ‘We are going to play a game,’ she said with forced lightness. ‘First, we have to get wet.’
One pair of brown eyes and one pair of blue looked up at her in trusting innocence as she picked up the last bucket and drenched them both. With the last of it tipped over her own head, she snatched up the shawl and wrapped it over her hair to cover her mouth and nose.
‘Stay back against the wall,’ she ordered. ‘As far back as you can.’
She waited for the little girls to cower damply at the far end of the cellar, then reached for the wooden latch. The wood was warm to the touch but she could hear no crackle and roar of flames, so carefully opened the door a crack and peeked out.
The outside world was grey. Filled with swirling, choking smoke that rolled like a great ocean over the land. The roar of this ocean was still distant, and there was no sign of the flames.
Jacaranda Vines Page 26
